


Unnamed Things

by dietplainlite



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Established Sherlolly, F/M, Oral Sex, Secret Relationship, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-12 04:49:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/807438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dietplainlite/pseuds/dietplainlite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes may have a very public persona, but that doesn't mean he can't keep some things private.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I own nada. 
> 
> This is a commissioned work for dizzypersephone.

They usually did games night at John and Mary's, but this week John had suggested Sherlock's flat. Sherlock had spent too much time brooding at home since they weren't on a case and John worried that he might be feeling neglected (though of course the detective would never admit it.) Sherlock hadn't protested, even though he'd never participated in games night before. He had let them in, told them he wouldn't be playing and had sequestered himself in a corner with his laptop.

"Want to finish this off?" Mary Morstan-Watson says to Molly Hooper as she passes her the bottle of Riesling. Mrs. Hudson has gone back downstairs after finishing the game of Scrabble, and John is packing up the board.

"Oh, no more wine for me. I've got to work early and can't be too hungover. Don't want to misplace someone's liver or something."

There is an awkward silence, which Mary breaks. "Oh, Molly! I've nearly forgotten. I ran into an old friend of my brother's the other day. He's been away doing business in Brazil for ages and seems to be suffering from culture shock. I invited him out for drinks with us tomorrow night but I'd hate for him to be the odd man out. You should join us."

Molly does not miss the look that passes between Mary and John. No one misses the huff of laughter from Sherlock.

Choosing to ignore Sherlock, Molly answers brightly, "Sure! I mean, he's not weird or creepy or anything, is he?"

Another sharp guffaw from Sherlock. John turns to him. "Is our conversation that amusing or are you watching Jeremy Kyle again?"

Sherlock flips the laptop shut and displays a tight lipped smile.

"No, just reading up on the Zodiac Killer. Humorous fellow but I was just amused at how long it took Mary to get around to asking Molly on this blind date when she's probably been planning it for days. So tell us more about this eligible bachelor, Mary. Early forties, still clinging to the vestiges of his looks, involved in a high paying but morally dubious field like oil or mining?"

"Pharmaceuticals," Mary says. "And he's really a stand up bloke. Decent and kind. I wouldn't set my friend up with an arsehole." She smiles at Molly and starts taking the wine glasses to the sink.

"Fantastic! But Molly has plans tomorrow night. She told me she would assist me with an experiment and I can't spare her. "

"Well," says Molly. "Molly can surely help out a certain detective during the day tomorrow and still be free for drinks." She turns to Mary. "Seven o'clock?"

"Perfect," says Mary, looking oddly disappointed.

Molly leaves first, then John and Mary say their goodbyes. Sherlock waits exactly twenty minutes, then texts John to ask him to come back round as he's forgotten to ask him something. John's reply can be summarized as "Sod off I'm already home." Sherlock smiles, dons his coat and scarf and heads up the street-in the opposite direction of John and Mary's- to a little corner gastro-pub.

He lingers at the door to watch her for a moment. She's sitting at the bar, her bag on one stool holding a place for him, reading a book and sipping on a pint. Probably a Carling but maybe Stella. He's not close enough to discern by the color or odor. She'll have already ordered her food and the chips with garlic aioli that he can't get enough of.

He goes over to her and hangs her bag on the under bar hook before settling on his stool and resting one foot on the bottom rung of her stool.

She looks up from her book and laughs when she sees his petulant scowl.

"Why on earth did you say yes to that blind date?" he pouts. "You could have come up with a million and one excuses, and I tried to give you an out."

"Sherlock. Dearest," she says with a shake of her head. "They're suspicious again. It was a test, and you'd have seen that if you hadn't been so engrossed in your laptop. Even I could see that coming to your place tonight was a ruse to throw us together. I had to say yes or they'd start popping round at odd hours again and lurking around the utility closets at Bart's."

"That was rather a close one, wasn't it?" he said, recalling the time John had barged into the closet where Molly and Sherlock were furiously snogging, ostensibly looking for more slides but seeming rather disappointed to find Sherlock in there alone. Sherlock had told him it was the only place he could think properly because Molly would chatter away about nothing. He'd hustled John away before he could get a better look at what was underneath that pile of scrubs on the floor.

Molly giggled at the memory but also experienced a rush of warmth at the memories preceding their interruption. He'd been whispering in her ear the things he'd rather be doing with his fingers if they had been elsewhere.

Sherlock's thoughts have obviously wandered in the same direction as he leans in close to her.

"Besides, I was really hoping that I _would_ have you tomorrow night, provided all the deranged criminals in London manage to control themselves long enough."

Despite the rather morbid addendum to his request, Molly is fraught with desire for this strange and beautiful man.

"Of course you can have me. After. It's just drinks, not a real date. I'll get a raging headache halfway through the second round, okay?" She smiles and kisses him on the cheek, whispering in his ear "And what's there to stop us tonight?"

His eyes widen and he grins. While he is used to be tense and irritable when not on a case, he has found that Molly provides plenty to occupy his mind and body. Though it is somewhat exhausting keeping up the façade of boredom around John.

"Absolutely nothing," he says. "But first, fortifications. I haven't eaten today and I'd rather not embarrass myself too badly." As if on cue, the bartender delivers Sherlock's chips and Molly's hamburger.

"Anything else?" he asks as he sets the plates down.

"I really hate to do this," Molly says sweetly. "But can we get it to go?"


	2. Chapter 2

Later, she turns on the oven so that she can reheat her burger, whirling around on her way back out of the kitchen to double check that the oven is, indeed, empty. Once, she had turned it on only to discover a few minutes later that he had been storing dirty dishes in there to keep Mrs. Hudson from nagging him about tidying up. She'd always checked after that, and her diligence had paid off in preventing her from roasting everything from old case files he'd knicked from the Yard, to anatomical specimens and even John's birthday present (a week after his birthday.) Sherlock hardly ever used the oven for cooking, so he saw it as a convenient storage unit.

He's sitting at the table in his dressing gown, devouring his chips and reading the latest issue of Cosmo. He'd asked her to provide him with her leftover magazines not long after they met, but she hadn't mustered up the courage to ask why for months. When Sherlock had told her that he read the advice columns in order to gain insight into all of life, she had laughed at first, but then shrugged and said that she supposed he was right.

"I still don't know why you won't just use the microwave," he says, giving an appreciative look to her ensemble of knickers and a t shirt before going back to his reading.

"It's alright for some things, but not for reheating bread. It's all chewy at first then hardens up. And unlike some people, I'm not keen on eating cold food if it's meant to be hot."

"More chips for me, then," he says, popping one into his mouth. It had come as a surprise to her, when they had started spending time together outside of Bart's, how much he loves to eat. Of course he'd mentioned before that he didn't eat while he was working, but at the time she only ever saw him while he was working. She had always thought it wasn't important to him, but in fact he absolutely adored food when he had the time to enjoy it and didn't get so caught up in something that he forgot.

Molly wasn't picky. Schooling and her erratic work schedule had led her to eating many a meal hours after it had been prepared. But there were some foods that she considered to be lost causes once they had gone cold. Chips were definitely on that list. Sherlock, on the other hand, didn't care. He would eat most anything at any temperature. She had to admit that it came in handy for him on nights like tonight, when their plans for a quiet meal in before retiring to his room had been obliterated within seconds of walking into the flat. She had been reaching for plates in the cabinet when he had come up behind her, putting his hands on her hips and whispering in her ear that it could wait.

"But weren't you worried about having enough energy?"

"I've got reserves," he'd said, already working her shirt over her head.

And now here it is, almost one in the morning, and they are just eating their dinner. She puts her food in the oven, sets the timer and heads to the sitting room.

Sherlock catches her around the waste with one arm as she walks past him and settles her into his lap. "Listen to this one," he says, then clears his throat. He reads in a convincingly female tone.

"'Dear Cosmo, I have a major problem with a coworker in my office. She will hang around in the lavatory after she has finished all of her business just to make sure that everyone who comes out washes her hands. To make matters worse, if we don't wash our hands for at least thirty seconds she will berate us for it! Once she even went to human resources to complain and named people by name for not washing long enough. Of course HR couldn't do anything about it other than hang signs about proper hand washing, but it's driving us all bonkers. I've started using the loos on the floor above but sometimes when you've had a few cuppas things get urgent. What should we do?'"

"Oh dear," Molly says, giggling and burying her face in his neck. He smells like sweat and his lovely citrusy aftershave and her soap and—faintly-of garlic. She gives him a quick kiss right behind his ear then goes to check on her food. "What do they tell her to do?"

"Some rubbish about thanking her for her concern and then changing the subject. I'd just make sure that everyone knows about how she's stalking the HR assistant's boss and just wants an excuse to be near his office. "

"And that, my dearest, is why you work for yourself," she says.

"That's the least of the reasons," he says.

Molly sits at the table with her burger and a large glass of milk. She rolls her eyes with pleasure when she finally bites into her sandwich. The mushrooms and cheese and everything are perfect, especially good after having waited so long and then working up an appetite. She offers half of it to Sherlock, who takes it gratefully and finishes it off in about four bites. After eating, she is hit with a wave of fatigue and yawns. She gets up and hugs him from behind, kissing him on top of his tangled dark curls.

"I can sleep over, but you have to let me actually sleep, okay? I was serious about having to be at work early. If I go to bed now I can maybe get about five hours" She runs her fingers through his hair, gently combing out some of the knots. He leans his head back and she kisses his forehead.

"Okay, I'll do my best."

"Not your best, sir," she says as she goes back to his bedroom. "Promise."

"I promise I'll let you sleep." He stands up and follows her. "In about, oh, half an hour's time."


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock's internal alarm wakes him at 5:45. The sun is fully up and streaming in between the cracks in the curtains and under his bedroom door, but it's still dim enough for sleep. Molly's mobile alarm is set for 6:00, but he wants to wake her himself, as it will be far more pleasant than waking up to her mobile's ringing. He is lying prone, staring at the ceiling and inspecting a few memories. He glances over at her, sprawled gracelessly on her belly, arms and legs splayed out as far as possible. If left alone in the bed, she will take up every square inch that her body can cover. As it is, he is lying quite close to the edge of the bed. He doesn't mind.

She is not in REM sleep, which is good, because it will make for an even more pleasant awakening. As cheerful and lovely as Molly is, she is not a morning person, and is helped greatly by being eased into full consciousness.

She moans slightly and turns over on her side, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of her breasts and ending with an equally tantalizing view of her bare back. He feels a corresponding twitch in his groin but represses that urge. He shouldn't make her late for work.

He goes back to the memories he has been inspecting.

While he was away, Sherlock had packed away all but the most useful information pertaining to London. This meant that, upon his return, he had to consciously unpack a lot of memories before revealing himself to his friends. He had been surprised at just how much he had wanted to see Molly, and at the realization that he had missed her. Not just her usefulness. He had missed the days when they worked together for hours without saying a word, and without getting in each other's way. She had been incredibly intuitive about what he needed and when. He missed the conversations that they sometimes fell into, that would start with a shared bit of scientific knowledge and meander from there. She would forget that she was talking to Sherlock Holmes and just talk to him as a friend. And yes, he'd missed her quiet voice and her tiny capable hands. At the time, he didn't recognize this as any different from his missing John and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. Even as they fell back into a familiar working pattern, even after they started continuing their conversations in coffee shops and cafes after their work was finished.

He wonders if John would have noticed if he hadn't been so caught up in building his own new life.

The first time he had kissed Molly, he hadn't even planned on seeing her. He was just about to turn the corner onto Baker Street when a text from John warned him that the stoop was crawling with reporters. It was a slow news cycle, and the day marked six months since he had returned, so they were keen to get some new angle on the story. He turned around and went back the way he came, irritated because, despite its being early afternoon, he had been going home specifically to nap after tying up some loose ends on a case. He'd burned up the last bit of adrenaline from solving the thing and was left with the weariness of three sleepless nights. He considered his options. Mycroft's? Hell no. A hotel? Perhaps, though there were generally too many distractions in the evidence of hundreds of stories played out in each room; evidence that the haphazard cleaning of even the poshest hotels didn't fully eliminate.

Or there was Molly's. He had been there often enough that it bore up little in the way of new stimuli, and her cat was a pleasant companion. She would understand. It wouldn't be the oddest thing he'd ever requested of her. (Surely there couldn't be much more odd a request than helping one stage one's death.) If she was at work he would just pick the lock and kip on the sofa. He would text her that he was there, of course, that was the courteous thing, right? (It didn't occur to him to text her to let her know he was on his way.)

He rang the bell on the tiny terraced house with the lavender door, and after a few moments heard her soft footsteps. She was barefoot.

"Who is it?" she said.

"It's Sherlock, might I come in?"

"Oh," she said, and that was all she said for several seconds.

"Molly, are you alright?"

"Oh, yes," she said. She went through the process of unlocking all of the locks (there were four) and opened the door an inch or two to double check it was really him.

"You should probably invest in a good camera or at least a peephole, Molly. Chains are fairly useless against an insistent intruder."

She shut the door and he thought for a moment that he'd said the wrong thing again, but then he heard the slide of the chain. She opened the door again, wide enough for him to enter.

Her hair was down and very damp. She was wearing pyjama pants at least two sizes too big, rolled at the waist and the hems. She was also wearing a white A shirt that was wet in patches where her hair had been resting on it. So wet in patches as to be transparent. She seemed very aware of this. As soon as she opened the door she folded her arms across her chest in an aggressive stance that was in direct opposition to the concern on her face.

"What do you need?" she said.

Up until then he had planned on telling her that he'd come by to see her, so that it wouldn't come off as just another instance of Molly being useful to Sherlock. But he dismissed it. They were beyond those pretenses. He didn't have to flatter her to get what he wanted. He never really had. He told her the truth.

"Of course," she said, taking his coat and hanging it in the hall closet. "I'll be down here working," she said, indicating the sitting room. "But you can take the day bed in the office. Or-my room. I know the day bed's a bit short for you."

She ran out of steam and looked at him a moment longer before settling on the sofa with her laptop and a sheaf of papers, her cheeks gone just the slightest bit red. He went upstairs and briefly considered the daybed in her spare bedroom turned office before deciding that it was definitely too short. He had spent about twenty hours there, sleeping off the physical effects of a fake suicide, before hopping into one of Mycroft's sleek black cars and disappearing into the fog. He hadn't even told her goodbye.

He went into her bedroom, which was fairly tidy if overtly feminine. Most of the furnishings were IKEA, but she had a few good pieces, including a dressing table which probably belonged to a grandmother. It was bursting at the seams with lotions, body washes and various fragrances, as well as a wide array of bras and knickers. Interesting that she'd offered her room without dashing upstairs to tidy up a bit, to hide the evidence that she wore the same undergarments that most women of her culture did. She knew him well enough to know he wouldn't care, though he did remember that it had all been put away when he'd briefly seen this room before.

"Of course she's obsessed with fragrance," he muttered. "Surrounded by the smell of death every day. She probably thinks it seeps into her pores. It's why she showers immediately upon getting home and probably before work as well. Most of the toiletries have a citrus base, though a few are lightly floral. Nothing too heavily associated with funerals, though. Range in price from chemist's to upscale department store."

For a moment he thought that maybe it would be best to sleep in the other room, as this one hadn't been explored enough and could prove distracting. But her bed, garish though the duvet might be, looked inviting, and large enough for a full grown person or two. And there was a nice breeze coming through the window, and her street was fairly quiet since school was still in. (Though he thought he could probably sleep through a hurricane at this point.) Decision made, he stripped to his pants, laying his clothes neatly over her vanity chair, slipped between the sheets and was asleep within seconds, his last conscious thought being that her pillow smelled just like her hair.

It took more than his usual two seconds to discern what time it was when he woke up. He attributed the extra time to having to remember where he was. He was awoken by the sound of an ice cream truck, and ice cream trucks never came down Baker Street.

"Molly's," he said. He looked at the shadows in the room. "Half past four." Her cat, Toby, was asleep at the foot of the bed and didn't stir when he got up.

He dressed, splashed some cold water on his face in the en suite, decided there wasn't much to be done about his hair and went downstairs, carrying his shoes.

She was in the same place he had left her, but her laptop was shut and she was watching telly. He had meant to leave immediately, but he felt that would be, well, rude. He had barged into her house on her day off and used her bed. The least he could do was chat with her for a while. In fact, strangely enough, he wanted to chat with her. He wanted to know what she had done today and what had led her to be home from work by midday on a Tuesday and what in the world she was watching on the television.

"How did you sleep?" she asked him brightly.

"Like the dead," he answered, sitting on the sofa, ostensibly to put on his shoes.

She took a deep breath. "I-I was just thinking about ordering in. You can stay. I mean, if you're hungry. Or even if you're not and the reporters are gone you can stay."

"The reporters are gone, mercifully, according to John's most recent text." He noticed her face fall a bit before he could continue. "But I have to admit I'm ravenous. What were you thinking?"

She gapes at him. He's not sure if she's more surprised that he's staying or that he's eating. Perhaps the combination of the two occurrences had rendered her mute. Finally she handed over a bundle of menus.

"Chinese, probably. But maybe Thai. I wasn't sure."

"You mean you don't do this online yet?"

"What?"

"Don't do anything by phone that you can do by computer or text, Molly. Hand me your laptop."

She did as he said and within a minute he showed her an array of options on a single website.

"Menus and ordering all in one place. No need to talk to anyone on the phone. No extra cost. You can even save favorites. There, this one," he said, highlighting the name of a nearby Thai place. He quickly selected the items he wanted then handed her the laptop. She made her choices, then frowned when it came time to pay.

"Sherlock, this is your account so it's got your payment information logged."

"It's perfectly secure. I only use that account for online ordering anyhow."

"No, but I don't have any cash to pay you back. Should I just enter my info, or sign up on my own?"

"Don't be silly. I'm starving. Just order and we'll deal with it all later."

She completed the order, and smiled at him. And it was that moment, with her demonstrating once again that sense of…rightness that she had. Of fairness. Her being clueless about a website that half of London had been using for years. The fact that she still had a folder full of takeaway menus. Her stupid hair in two braids with one of the ends in danger of plunging into her tea. The way she'd pulled on a cardigan (that stupid cherry print affair) but hadn't bothered with a bra. Her key lime scented body wash that didn't smell a damned thing like key limes. And the fact that she loved him even though he was perhaps the biggest prat in the entire world. All of these things coalesced into one clear and bright thought.

He wanted to kiss her.

He jumped, he was so startled by it.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"Nothing. A chill. I'm fine." He set the laptop on the coffee table and gestured to the television. "What on earth are you watching?"

"It's silly," she said, blushing a bit again. "Just something I used to watch with my mum. Quantum Leap? It's about a physicist who gets stuck in his own time travel experiment. He keeps 'leaping' into the lives of different people and has to change the past before he can leap again. I always thought it was funny when he'd end up in a woman. I mean, in the body of a woman not in her."

It sounded like rubbish but Sherlock was fascinated. He was also enthralled with watching her mouth move. How had he ever thought that her mouth was too small?

"Doesn't changing the past wreak havoc on the future?" he said, distractedly.

"You mean like a paradox? They don't deal with that a whole lot. And he can only travel within his own li-"

"May I kiss you?" Sherlock interrupted.

"What? Yes. I mean—"

So he did.

He leaned toward her, wrapped his arm around her waist and kissed her. He was very much out of practice, but it at once felt both familiar and dangerously new. She was too stunned at first to move, but as soon as she figured out it was real, she plunged both of her hands into his hair and reciprocated. He thought he might pass out when she took his bottom lip between hers and gently sucked on it. He pulled her closer and was putting his other arm around her when she suddenly stiffened and pulled back. She looked angry. Why was she angry?

"What's the matter?" he asked. Her eyes were glassy and her nose was turning red.

"You can't. You just can't. You can't do that."

"Do what? Kiss you? I asked you and you said yes."

"You can't just decide you want to kiss me because you're done with a case and you're bored!" The tears were actually flowing by then. His natural urge was to leave but he knew without a shadow of a doubt what a catastrophic effect that would have on their friendship. Panicking, he did the next thing that occurred to him; he folded her in his arms. She fought him at first but became very still as he started talking.

"I didn't do it because I was bored. I just-." There was no way he would be able to put into words the jumble of thoughts that had gone through his head. "I just—wanted to. For no other reason than that. And I'm almost one hundred percent positive that I'll want to again in the future."

She leaned back and looked up at him. "Well, you can't." She broke free and wiped her eyes with her sleeve, then went over to the kitchen to get plates and cutlery. "You can't just go around kissing people even if you want to. Not if it doesn't mean anything to you and it means—everything to the other person." He stood up to follow her.

"Molly—"

"No.

"Molly. What do you need?"

It was the first time he had ever asked her that. She looked at him for a long time before she answered.

"Time. Outside of work. Like now. But planned. In advance."

"Plans in advance," he said. "Like-dates?"

"We don't have to call them that but—" she took a deep breath and set her jaw with resolve. "Yes. Dates."

And this was one of the myriad things about all of this—relationships, sentiment, love, entanglements, all of it—that should have made him shout terrible things to her and turn around and leave. Should have made him find a new hospital and lab and a new pathologist and never set foot in Bart's again and delete every piece of her from his memory.

But instead, there was relief. Relief not unlike that moment when the last pin of a difficult lock is picked. The moment right before turning the tumbler.

"Okay."

Their food arrived not long after. They didn't talk about it further. They shared spring rolls and argued about the plausibility of the television show and whether or not Pad Thai would be a good treat for the cat. She kicked him out before ten o'clock. She didn't kiss him at the door.

On his way home, he messaged her to ask if she would like to go to the Bodies exhibition.

Sherlock smiles now, alone in his room with her, thinking about how easy it had felt letting go. How it hadn't been at all easy since then. How they had fought so terribly after their first date that he was afraid she wouldn't see him again. But here he is.

He looks at the clock. 5:55, but her respiration rate has slowed. She is entering a deeper stage of sleep. He'd better wake her up now; it will be more pleasant in the long run. He reaches over and runs his finger up her bare spine. She moans and swats at his hand.

"Wake up, Molly."

"Don't wanna."

He scoots closer and plants a very sloppy kiss on her shoulder.

"Wake up, Molly. You'll be late for work."

"Plenty of time." She tries to pull her pillow over her head but he wrests it from her. "Go 'way."

He rolls her over on her back and starts kissing her neck very noisily.

"If you don't wake up, you're going to end up with a rather large love bite. It's too warm for polo necks and scarves are impractical in the lab."

"Mmm," she moans, and the smile on her face makes him realize that while she may now be mostly awake, she is not thinking about leaving bed anytime soon.

"Nope!" he says, and pulls away. "You have to be at work at eight, and you hate to rush around. You still have to shower and dress and eat, since it's likely the only real meal you'll have for hours. Shower takes twenty minutes and—"

"Not going to wash my hair. Did that yesterday. Do it again tonight. Shower takes five," she said, pulling him back to her.

"Oh. Well, in that case, having gained fifteen minutes." He quickly starts kissing her neck again, and works his way down her body. He has just worked his way past her navel when he hears the door to 221B and a very familiar "Yoo hoo!"

Sherlock lifts his head.

"Timing, Mrs. Hudson. Timing," he sighs. He gets up throws on a dressing gown.

"What are you doing?" Molly hisses, pulling the sheet around her. "Just pretend you're asleep. Or not here."

"She'll come in and check on me. No boundaries. I'll just get rid of her."

He eases out the door and greets his landlady with a scowl.

"What are you doing here at this ungodly hour, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Sherlock, I finally went to the market yesterday and I forgot to ask you last night what you wanted for breakfast. You're always wanting big ones after cases and I haven't had anything in. I don't know what you've been living on."

"You have a phone, Mrs. Hudson. You could have texted me."

"You know I hate using that dreadful thing. Hit one wrong letter and it corrects it to something horrid."

"That's because your boyfriend's grandchildren have reprogrammed your shortcuts. I told you that you needed a passcode stronger than his birthday. But, now that we're here. One egg, poached, toast, sausages, no bacon. The orange marmalade not the jam. Coffee, black, two sugars. Now off you go." He begins ushering her out the door.

"But Sherlock. Aren't you going to ask Molly what she wants?"


	4. Chapter 4

There have been very few occasions when Sherlock Holmes has been speechless. This one only lasts two seconds, but his jaw actually drops.

"Excuse me?" he says.

"Oh Sherlock," his landlady says, swatting at him gently. "You've said yourself that old ladies make the best security systems. Do you really think I didn't notice the two of you coming back here last night, and Molly never leaving? And that's not the first time, though I figure you must use her place most often. More privacy."

While Sherlock is somewhat relieved to learn that echoing pipes are not the reason for Mrs. Hudson's knowledge, it only lessens his alarm fractionally.

"Have you told anyone else?" he demands.

"Of course not," she says indignantly. "You know I'm as trustworthy as they come, and I always know you have your reasons. I wouldn't want my sweetheart's name run through the papers either. Though I don't know why you haven't told John and Mary. I feel awful. I'm practically having to lie to them, pretending you two aren't carrying on."

"The more people know, the more likely it is someone will let something slip. You're right, we don't want it in the damned papers. That and you know as well as I do that there are always going to be more people looking for ways to hurt me."

"And I don't want my friends falling over themselves with concern and advice," says Molly. They both turn to see her standing in the bedroom doorway wearing Sherlock's best dressing gown. "'Oh Molly, are you sure. Oh Molly, he's just going to break your heart. Oh Molly, don't let him too close, he's just going to hurt you.' Ugh. "

"Of course, dear. People do like to stick their noses in other people's relationships." She gives Sherlock a very pointed look, which he ignores. "But you really should tell John. It's only right. I know you, you're having fun with this, too, but it's not fair to him."

"Perhaps, Mrs. Hudson, But we won't be making that decision today," Sherlock says. "Molly, what would you like for breakfast?"

"You really don't have to! I can grab something on the way. "

"I'm perfectly happy to, Molly. I'm already cooking for myself and Sherlock anyway. Another egg or two isn't a bother." She smiles maternally at Molly and makes her way to the door.

"Well, just toast and jam. And tea."

"Okay, dear. I'll throw a couple more sausages on just in case."

Sherlock and Molly stare at each other in silence. As soon as they hear the door to 221A shut, they burst out laughing.

"Holy shit," Molly says. "Mrs. Hudson knows but John hasn't figured it out yet." She goes to him and buries her face in his chest, giggling uncontrollably.

"Well, to be fair, she does live right below me."

"Oh god. I thought—I thought she was going to say she'd heard us through the pipes!"

"So did I. Well, she still could have. This is an old building." This sets off a fresh wave of giggles in Molly. He strokes her hair and kisses the top of her head absently as she calms down. "Do you think she's right? Should we tell John?"

"You said we weren't deciding that today. But I do know how she feels. It's dreadful keeping secrets from friends."

He holds her tighter at this. The guilt she'd felt about deceiving her friends about his death had been almost unbearable for her and subsequently increased his own guilt about the whole mess. He cups her face in his hands and kisses her, lingeringly, pouring as much of an apology as he is able into it. He knows that she doesn't resent having to lie, but he doesn't think he will ever be able to stop apologizing. He feels her smile and pulls away.

"Our window of opportunity is gone," she sighs, resting her head on his chest again.

"Not quite," he says, as he starts to untie Molly's dressing gown. She smiles and takes his hand, leading him back to his bedroom. Once there, he gently pushes her back onto the bed, kneeling at the foot. He grabs her by the hips and pulls her down to the end of the bed. He parts the robe and eases her legs apart, his thumbs making light circles on the soft flesh of her inner thighs. He takes a few moments to gaze appreciatively at the bounty before him.

"It's amazing," he says. "I have an absolutely Pavlovian response to the sight of your cunt."

Molly's giggle subsides into a soft moan as he slides two fingers into her.

"You're always ready for me, aren't you," he says.

"Yes," she replies, and moans again as he crooks his fingers and just barely strokes his thumb over her clit. She had been able to maintain eye contact with him up until that moment, her enormous brown eyes locked on him hungrily. As he begins lightly circling his thumb she closes her eyes and arches her back beautifully.

It was incredible, had been incredible, learning every nuance of every moan and whimper and quiver. Discovering what to do to please her. Discovering just how pleasurable it was for him to elicit these responses in her. Through her he had finally understood what all the fuss was about, despite all the mess and the emotional risk. And while a small part of him had regretted not discovering all of this years before, a bigger part was glad that it was all only for her.

She utters a small sound of protest as he removes his fingers but is satisfied again as he leans in and begins placing the lightest of kisses on her inner thigh, working his way center and then- her moans become frustrated once more as he moves to her other thigh.

"Sherlock, please," she whispers.

"Instant gratification is not good for anyone, Miss Hooper," he says. He knows that she is presently so sensitive that she can feel his breath on the place she wants him to touch the most.

She throws her arm across her face and bucks against him as he draws his thumb across her entrance and brushes it across her clit again, back and forth, almost pensively.

"God Sherlock just do it, please."

"Well," he says. "Since we are operating under time constraints." He moves his thumb and replaces it with his tongue. The first contact is almost too much for her, and she jerks back. He wraps his arms around her thighs and pulls him to her again, hands splayed out on her tummy, kneading gently as he works her with his tongue. Not just her center, which he does suck and flick with abandon, but every part of her. He can never get enough of the taste of her. In rare moments when he lets his mind wander it will come to him, the memory of how she tastes, and it makes his mouth water.

Molly's fingers are wrapped tightly in his hair but he barely feels it as he finally concentrates all of his efforts on her clit, lapping feverishly as she writhes against him, not relenting until every muscle in her body tenses. With a whimpering cry she relaxes, pulsating against his tongue, her legs shaking. She gently bats his head away, too sensitive now for even the lightest of touches. She scoots back onto the bed and he joins her, taking in the flush on her chest and her hair in disarray as she catches her breath.

"When you're recovered enough to stand up, you'd best get in the shower."

"But what about you?" she says, stroking his cheek.

He captures her hand in his and kisses it. "I'll be fine. Save it for later and all that. After your date. You know you love it when I'm excessively pent up."

"Oh god," Molly groans. "I do have to do that drinks thing, don't I? What was I thinking?"

"I believe I asked you that last night. No, Miss Hooper. It is too late. You have made your bed, as they say. Now go get in the shower. You have about seven minutes until Mrs. Hudson returns."


	5. Chapter 5

vening finds Molly Hooper in a crowded, trendy sports pub, trying desperately to act as though the things that Philip Waters is saying are fascinating, or at the least, interesting enough to hold her attention.

It's not that he's boring. He's actually an interesting and attractive bloke. Not long ago she would have been thankful to Mary for setting her up with someone decent, even if she was still hopelessly (or so she thought) in love with Sherlock Holmes. But now, as she sips her second gin and tonic, the only thing she can think about is how soon she can get out of here and get back to her apartment. It had been difficult to work beside Sherlock this afternoon when he had finally showed up at the lab to work on his experiment.

Other than a few interludes in the change room and the utility closet, they were usually able to control themselves quite well while working together. After all, Sherlock had plenty of practice subduing that part of his nature, and she had spent years trying to subdue her passion for him.

All she really wants right now, while nodding and smiling at Philip's story about Carnivale in Rio, is to be in her bedroom, removing Sherlock's shirt with her teeth, not caring that she can't quite figure out how that would work.

It doesn't help that the bloody bastard is sitting across the pub at the far end of the bar.

Despite his hair being concealed by a flat cap pulled down low, and his being dressed like an East End hipster, she had made him the second he walked into the room, slouching posture, glasses, skinny jeans and all. She almost always knew when he entered a room; it was electric.

He had positioned himself in a spot with his back mostly to their table, but in front of a large mirror behind the bar. He alternated watching her party with talking about football (he gestured frequently to the television) with the fellow beside him.

God but he was sexy, even if he was kind of being a creepy stalker right now.

When Philip pauses to take another drink, she pulls out her phone.

"I'm so sorry. I just remembered something I forgot to do at work. I need to send a quick text." She turns away slightly and types.

-Hope you'll still be wearing those jeans when I get to my house. I think I'll enjoy peeling them off of you.—

She pockets her phone again. "Sorry about that. Pretty urgent and all. The dead can wait but their tissue cultures can't." As she expected, Philip smiles uncomfortably at her morgue humor and takes a large gulp of his drink. She glances over his shoulder in time to see Sherlock take his phone out of his pocket. He swipes the screen, taps a button and freezes. When he recovers from his second shock of the day, he swiftly types a reply, catches Molly's eye in the mirror, and raises his pint glass to her.

"Excuse me," she says as her text alert rings.

-They'll stay on, but only if you beat me home. SH—

She looks up and he is no longer at the bar. Blimey. Well, at least she won't have to use the headache excuse since she's set a work emergency up so nicely.

"Er, looks like I really made a mess of things at work," she says. "I've really got to run, try to fix this. I'll be in the lab all night if I have to run new tests." And with that, she practically runs from the pub, leaving a flustered John and Mary and a confused Phillip in her wake.

She considers a taxi, assuming he's taken one already, but decides against it. Traffic will be terrible. She goes down into the tube stop on the corner and barely makes the train, sliding doors closing right as she steps in. She'll have to transfer twice but it should still be faster than taking a taxi at this hour. The car is crowded but she manages to find a seat. She digs out her ear buds and plugs them into her phone, using music to drown out all the noise and letting her thoughts meander.

The last few days have been wonderful, and for the most part their relationship is wonderful, even with all the subterfuge. But it is also hard. Much harder than any of her other serious relationships, which is funny, considering she loves Sherlock more than she has anyone else.

For one (and she knows this is absolutely critical for him to be able to work) they have virtually no contact when he is on a case, unless he is working in her lab, and he is generally so capable of compartmentalizing that it is almost like working with him before his faked suicide. He doesn't casually insult her like he sometimes used to, but he still manages a detachment that she will never be able to match. He told her that it is more difficult for him to detach since they have become so close, but that when he lets his guard down he is so consumed with her that he risks missing something vital. She wonders if it's strange to think this is the most romantic thing anyone has said to her. It's not something she would run past her girlfriends, even if they knew she was seeing someone.

In a way, she has to admit that the arrangement suits her. She's never been able to understand those couples that do everything together. Sometimes she needs to be able to read in peace without someone practically reading her mind. One day, he deduced what she was thinking when her mind had wandered from her book, based solely on the items in the flat her eyes had settled on in the few moments she wasn't reading.

There have been times when he has left in the middle of dates or in the middle of the night when a case has come up. There have been times when he has been gone for days without communicating with her when he has travelled for a case or had no use of the lab.

And at the beginning, there were the moments of panic. He rearranged his kitchen cupboards completely one night after he noticed how familiar she was with their contents. He disappeared for a week right after she asked if he'd like to keep a toothbrush at her house and if she could keep one at his flat, hidden, of course. He agreed, then fled to Israel for a refresher in krav maga. They weren't even having sex at that point, just sleeping over occasionally. When they finally decided to take the relationship to that level (they had done almost everything but) she convinced him that they should go away for the weekend, otherwise she was afraid he would burn his flat or her house down, wherever the deed took place.

She smiles at the memory of that weekend as she fights the crowd to change trains. It was hilariously awkward but also sweet and perfect. Even now, remembering the look on his face when he was first inside her makes her heart swell and sends an aching need into the pit of her stomach. She quickens her pace to catch the train that's waiting.

The closest tube stop is five blocks from her house. As she emerges back on the surface, she is confident that even with the short walk, she'll beat him. Then she spots a familiar figure, a block ahead of her. He must have been on the same trains, but in different cars. He isn't in any hurry (the cocky bastard) but she knows her short strides are no match for his. At this point it's all about winning so she does something she only ever does when it's particularly rainy or cold; she gets a taxi. She feels a sense of triumph as she passes him, traffic being much thinner in this part of the city.

At her house, Molly runs up the front stairs and through her door, stopping just long enough to gather her mail. She feeds Toby and turns the kettle on. Just as it clicks off she hears his key in the door. He opens it and stops cold when he sees her. She smiles.

"What took you so long?"


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock drops his bag and keys, kicks off his shoes and bounds across the room. When he reaches Molly, he picks her up by the waist and sits her on the counter, burying his fingers in her hair and pulling her in for a kiss.

"Molly you are incredible," he says when he breaks away. "Christ I love you." He kisses her again on the mouth before focusing his attention on her neck. She pushes his jacket off of his shoulders and he shrugs out of it. She is dizzy with adrenaline and longing and unadulterated joy. He doesn't say those words often. This is something she knows her friends wouldn't approve of. But how do you explain that you know someone loves you because he always tries to wake up before you so you don't have to wake to an alarm? Or because he lets his hair grow a bit longer than he used to before getting a haircut because he knows you like it. Because when he goes to the library he always brings you back something even if he was there researching perfumes and he had to go all the way to the Young Adult section to get it.

You don't. Because while you love your girlfriends, they all deal in the verbal language of love, despite the fact that they have all been taken in by men who are free with the words and never with the actions.

"I love you, too," she says. She cups his face in her hands and looks at him. "Now as much as I enjoyed this game, why did you feel the need to spy on us? What's Phillip Waters' side game? Human trafficking? Money laundering?"

Sherlock looks down sheepishly. "Waters actually checks out. Working class family, won a scholarship to Eton. Gap year building wells in Somalia then on to Oxford. Primarily involved in pharmaceutical research. Made waves in his company by wanting to focus on cures for cancer instead of erectile dysfunction pills and cholesterol meds."

"Then why did you come to the pub?"

He doesn't answer.

"Sherlock Holmes, you look at me." He does. "It's you. It's been you since I first met you. And I don't care if some kindhearted soul sets me up with bloody Prince Harry, it's always going to be you and you'd save yourself a lot of worry if you'd get that through that skull of yours. Paper the walls in your Mind Palace with it. I love you, okay?"

"Okay," he says and kisses her again. "Now, you had some sort of request regarding my jeans?"

"Yes. I mean, one thing I do love about this cloak and dagger business is getting to see you out of your suits. I mean—yes, out of your suits but also in other clothes. And out of them. But you're going to have to let me down if I'm going to live out my fantasy involving those jeans."

"Hmm. Okay," he says. "But you might want to hold on."

"What? Oh!"

He pulls her closer and scoops her off the counter. She wraps her legs and arms around him and laughs as he carries her to the sofa. He lays her down and stands up long enough to remove his shirt before joining her again.

"That's my old Westlife shirt, isn't it?" she says as she runs her hands along his shoulders, down his back, around to his abdomen and up his chest. She can't get enough of how this feels. How he is so slender yet so strong.

"Yes," he says, kissing her behind her ear. "I was wearing it ironically."

She laughs and kisses him fully on the mouth. He starts to unbutton her shirt but she pushes him back.

"Mmm, not yet. Sit up," she says. He complies. She pushes him back against the sofa and stands up taking a moment to look at him. He looks up at her, half flirtatiously and half challengingly, hair already disheveled, jeans unbuttoned. (When had that happened?)

Molly kneels between his legs and runs her hands slowly up his thighs. She moves her thumbs up either side of his zipper and grins at his sharp intake of breath before she unzips him. She hooks her hands underneath his waistband (including his boxer briefs because she is nothing if not efficient) and begins to pull them off. He raises his hips helpfully and she pulls back, launching herself backwards into the coffee table. The jeans had come off more easily than she anticipated, but had gotten stuck at the knee.

"Shit," she says, looking behind her to assess any damage. Luckily there were no stray cups of tea or water on the table. She turns back around to see Sherlock, half naked, half erect, looking to the side with his hand over his mouth, trying his best to suppress his laughter.

"Hush, you!" she says.

"I didn't—"

"You were thinking."

He uses his legs to push the coffee table further back. She smiles her thanks and works his jeans off, one leg at a time, pulling from the bottom hem. It is not a graceful procedure. She wonders how he ever got into them in the first place; his feet are so enormous. She tosses the hateful garment aside.

Then she looks at him.

He's not laughing anymore, and he is fully erect, lightly stroking himself. She wonders if she will ever get used to seeing him like this. She fervently hopes not.

"So, Miss Hooper. What now?"

"Er, I honestly hadn't thought much past this point."

"Well, what should we do?"

"What would you like me to do?"

He feigns thinking, hands steepled under his chin.

"Molly, I would like it very much if you would ride my cock."

"That is an absolutely magnificent idea," she says, standing up. She reaches under her skirt and pulls down her knickers, kicking them to the side. She kneels on the edge of the sofa and leans in to kiss him. His hands travel over her body, but he doesn't try to remove her clothes. He knows what she wants. It's a very small kink of hers, doing it while one person is naked and the other is fully clothed. He does push her skirt up enough to allow her to straddle him, exploring her briefly with his fingers as she does so. "I've been thinking about this all day," she whispers into his ear.

"The evidence does not refute that statement."

She sits back for a moment, stroking him contemplatively. "And you?"

"Certain ideas were definitely on my mind on at least a subconscious level for most of the day."

Rising back up on her knees but keeping him in hand, she guides him to her entrance, barely taking him in before rising up again. His fingers dig into her hips, exerting pressure but not enough to force her down. She knows he wants to, so badly. To plunge himself into her all at once. But she teases him, bracing herself on his shoulders, going slightly lower with every roll of her hips, sometimes letting him slide completely out of her before taking him in again and sinking deeper.

It is incredible to watch his face when she does this. The lip biting, the subtle changes in the tension of his jaw, the flush rising on his face, and the tiny gasps. He usually can't keep his eyes open, but occasionally they will flutter open and he'll look at her with such need that she wants to give in and let him have all of her, right then. But she holds out, until finally she can't stand it anymore, and she sinks completely onto him.

"Is this what you wanted?" she asks as she rises again. He nods and raises his hips to meet her as she lowers herself again. She had wanted to take this slowly, to draw it out, but the day's anticipation made her impatient and she picked up her pace immediately. Sherlock followed her lead, his hands sliding from her hips to her waist, under her shirt. As her climax starts to build, she leans in and kisses him, saying his name softly, and rests her forehead against his. She digs her fingers into his shoulders and the next few strokes carry her over the edge. She continues riding him, slowly, as the wave crests, placing kisses all over his face.

"Thank you," she says.

"Do you think you have another one in you?" he asks.

"Probably."

"Good," he says, and starts unbuttoning her shirt. "But let's get you out of these clothes."


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock makes short work of removing Molly's shirt, unbuttoning it with impressive agility. He smiles obscenely when he sees that she's wearing a front hook bra.

"Why don't all of them come like this? Why all the acrobatics to put one on and take one off?" He opens the fastener with a snap of his thumb and index finger and pushes the shirt and bra off her shoulders and to the floor. "Forgive me, but we are going to have to, er, disengage in order to remove your skirt." She unzips it in the back and he lays her down on the sofa and pulls it off. He tosses it over his shoulder and it barely hits the floor before he is inside her again, setting a languorous pace.

"We probably shouldn't draw this out too long, you know," he says before nibbling on her ear.

"Why not?" she pouts. He usually takes great delight in finding out how many times he can make her orgasm. For science, of course.

"I ordered food on the way here. It should be arriving in the next fifteen minutes." He kisses her neck and cups her left breast, squeezing the nipple between his first and second fingers. "Maybe sooner."

"Sherlock!"

"You're always starving after, and I'm sure you haven't eaten anything since noon. This way you don't have to wait long and I don't have to listen to you complain."

"Point taken, though we'll talk about that last part later. Now will you please do me a favor?"

"Yes?"

"Shut up and fuck me."

"If you insist," he says and hitches her right leg over his shoulder, sinking deeper inside her. His pace quickens and he angles himself so that his pubic bone creates maximum friction in just the right spot. Within minutes Molly feels it rising again, and pulls him closer as the pleasure washes over her again, this time longer and more intensely.

"Molly," he says into her ear. "It's—I need to—you're just so—" and the rest is lost as he buries his face into her neck and lets go, thrusting hard and then slowing as he spills into her. His breathing is ragged and his face is red and his hair is an absolute rat's nest but he looks beautiful as he looks down at her and kisses the tip of her nose.

"Do you need anything? I'm getting a glass of water. Do you need a glass of water?"

"No, I'm fine," she says. He gets up and goes to the kitchen, still nude, and downs a tumbler full of water. He is refilling the glass as she goes to the upstairs loo to clean up, reclaiming the Westlife t shirt on the way. This is another thing her girlfriends would probably not understand, unless they all exaggerate about how much their men love to cuddle. Molly has come to think of this as his recompression time. He needs a bit of time to recollect all of the pieces of himself that scatter to the winds when he lets himself go. Being vulnerable is still incredibly frightening to him and he's never more vulnerable than when he is inside her body.

In the beginning, he needed a lot more time, and she didn't understand it. He would go for walks or hole himself up in another room for an hour or more. She was hurt at first but when he finally explained it in the best way he could, she understood and accepted it as another part of being in a relationship with him. Now he usually only needs a few minutes, before he is happy to wrap his arms around her and talk or drift off to sleep.

Her track bottoms are still on the floor from when she got dressed yesterday, so she pulls them on and grabs Sherlock's spare dressing gown before going downstairs. There's knock on the door just as she reaches the bottom of the stairs.

"Sherlock!" she says as he heads to the door.

"What?"

"You can't answer the door like that!" She tosses him his dressing gown.

"Right." He puts it on and continues.

"What did you get?" she asks as he brings the food to the sitting room.

" Phở," he says, pushing the coffee table to its rightful place. "You sound like you're coming down with something. And spring rolls, of course."

Her throat has been feeling a bit ticklish but she doesn't think it is affecting her voice that much. But this is Sherlock Holmes. She often doesn't bother to ask for explanations unless he seems desperate to show off or she is desperately curious. The only thing she's desperate for right now, however, is to eat.

They sit on the floor on opposite sides of the coffee table. Molly doesn't have a dining table (it would just end up being a dumping station for assorted junk) and this arrangement is more relaxed than sitting at the counter. Her stools were an inheritance from the last owners of the house and are as uncomfortable as they are ugly.

"So, about what Mrs. Hudson said," Molly starts.

"Mrs. Hudson says a variety of things throughout the day, most of them trivial, so you're going to have to narrow it down a bit," he says as he disassembles a spring roll. For some reason, he likes to eat them this way.

"About telling John and Mary about us."

"Oh, yes. Well of course we will but it doesn't have to be right away." He is paying a lot of attention to the prawn from his spring roll, giving it a tiny Y incision with his chopstick. "This is fun. This being only ours."

It is so rare to hear him refer to anything as fun outside of crime scenes that she is taken aback and for a moment thinks he is talking about dissecting the prawn.

"What? Oh. Sherlock, no. It will still be ours. All of this. Everything we do together when we're alone. It's just ours. Even Mycroft doesn't interfere."

"Mycroft, dull," he says, waving his hand as if waving the very thought of his brother away.

"Anyway," she continues, "I've never been one for sharing every little detail of my relationships, and just because John and Mary will know doesn't mean that the whole world will. Not much will change. John knows you, he won't be insisting on double dates or anything like that."

"Good," he says, getting up to throw away their empty containers. "That man has no idea what entails a good date. I'll tell him next time we're out on a case. Less likely to punch me if he's distracted. " He flops down on the sofa and holds his arm out to her. She joins him snuggles into his side, easily finding the places where they fit together best. He turns on the telly and flips through the channels aimlessly before settling on a documentary about the disappearance of honeybees. Toby pads down the stairs and settles in Sherlock's lap. As they watch, a feeling of absolute contentment hits her so strongly that it scares her. Because she finally has what she has wanted, and it is more perfect than she ever imagined, even with all of the quirks and idiosyncrasies they've had to learn to navigate. And having what she wanted scares her more than anything ever has, because she has never learned to trust the longevity of happiness. She has never learned to feel that she deserves it.

Before she knows it she is crying. She tries to let the tears roll down her face discreetly, willing them to stop, but of course he notices something is wrong.

"Molly, it's not that bad, the plight of the honeybees. The fate of our planet, yes, but nothing to cry over."

"It's not that," she says, hiding her face in his chest.

"Molly," he says and turns off the telly, waiting for her to speak.

"I just love you so much."

"Yes, I think we've established that in many ways, verbal and nonverbal."

"I just, I got scared because I suddenly thought about how awful it will be when you—when you get bored with me."

"Now you look at me, Molly Hooper." She does. His worried eyes scan her face. "On second thought, please don't look at me. It's—"

"I know, it's easier for you." She returns her head to his chest and pets Toby, who is purring obliviously.

"Right. So. I used to think that people were like—puzzles. You spend some time putting them together and you see the whole picture and then it's served its purpose and you put it back in the box and forget about it." He pauses for a long time. Admitting that he has emotions is hard enough for him; trying to describe them can render him speechless. When he begins speaking again his voice is quiet and low, barely audible above the sound of his heart banging in her ear as she lies against his chest.

"And then when I got to know a few people a bit better, I thought that people were like books, like mystery novels, that eventually you get to the end and you've solved it and you leave it on a chair in the airport for some other traveler and you're done. But then I—I let myself love a few people and I realized that the second you think you've gotten to the end and solved one mystery, another one pops up and you can never really get to the end of a person, especially one you love."

Molly is utterly still while she takes this in, then she starts sobbing again, wracking sobs that send Toby off of Sherlock's lap, hissing into the kitchen.

"Molly, Molly. Have I said something wrong? What is it?" He pulls her tighter and kisses the top of her head.

"No, you silly bastard. You're just so fucking wonderful I just…" And she kisses him. And the only sounds for a long time are sweet sighs and murmurs, and the rustling of cloth, followed by two pairs of feet racing up the stairs, and the shutting of a door.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock's internal alarm does not wake him the next morning. He opens his eyes to grey mid morning light streaming through the open window. Molly's side of the bed is vacant. He breathes in. Rain, mango orange shower gel, coffee, cleaning supplies. She's showered, hasn't been called into work and is catching up on housework. He's a little surprised he slept through her getting up and showering, but then again, he hasn't exactly gotten much sleep since his last case ended. He doesn't often get to do his full day post case lie in anymore, unless Molly is working long hours. And often, Molly's working long hours means there are interesting cases. Speaking of which, he turns his phone back on. A voicemail from John. Two text messages from John. Nothing else. Bollocks.

He rummages in his overnight bag for his pyjama bottoms (there hadn't ever been a need for them last night) puts them on and goes downstairs. He stops on the bottom step, reaching up to rest his palms on the top of the door frame and leaning forward to stretch. Molly is wiping down the cooker and work tops. Just light cleaning, then. He spots the IKEA bag that she uses for laundry parked by the door to the basement. Toby is sleeping soundly on top of the clothes.

"There's coffee if you want it, but you'd better get in the shower if we're going to actually get seated."

"Seated where?" he says, coming up behind her and placing his hands on either side of her on the worktop. He knows he needs a shower desperately, but he also knows how turned on she gets by the smell of his sweat. He vaguely recalls something about brunch plans, but he doesn't want to go anywhere other than back to her room.

"Sherlock," she says, turning to face him. He still has her pinned against the worktop, and as she inhales deeply he swears he can hear her heart rate increase. She is staring at the mole on his neck, the one she likes to focus on with her kisses. She swallows, looks him in the eye and ducks down under his arm to free herself. She goes into the lounge and starts straightening up.

"Sherlock, you agreed that we should try to do more things outside of our homes. And you also agreed to going to brunch, not even twelve hours ago."

"If I recall correctly, at the time I agreed your tongue was doing things to me that frankly should be illegal and might be in several countries. I'd have agreed to letting Kitty Riley get the scoop on our relationship if you'd asked."

She doesn't say anything else, just picks up the clothes that are still on the floor from last night and tosses them into the bag with the other laundry, much to Toby's chagrin. She comes back into the kitchen to fetch her sponge and spray cleaner. He follows her back to the lounge, where she kneels by the coffee table, wiping it down vigorously. He kneels on the opposite side.

"Molly, you agreed that you would tell me when and why you're upset instead of pouting and expecting me to figure it out. Which we know I'm bad at. Now I do know that this isn't just about going to brunch. We've made plans and gotten distracted before."

"That's just it! I mean, I know that we can't go out as much as normal couples, and believe me I think that's perfectly fine because I don't want to be in the papers or have a sniper set on me and I'm not honestly sure what's worse. It's just that-Sherlock I love having sex with you, like sometimes I think I'll go mad if I can't have you, but it can't be all we do." She's stopped her vigorous cleaning of the coffee table and is staring at the label on the spray bottle. Several things race through his mind in the moments before he reaches across the table and puts his hands on hers. Confusion, that she would think such a thing; hurt, that she would think such a thing; remorse, that anything he has done would cause her to think such a thing.

"Molly, do you really think that's all we do?"

She still won't quite look at him. "It seems that way sometimes."

"Admittedly, over the last two days we've had sex more than any other activity, but I was also on a case for two weeks followed by your working for sixty hours straight during that influenza outbreak. However, since the first time we had intercourse, we've only spent twenty five percent of our total time together having sex. The rest has been spent watching telly, reading, arguing, talking, cuddling, people watching, eating, going to museums, the library and concerts. And sleeping. Lots of sleeping."

Molly finally looks at him, a smile quivering on her lips. "And there's that one time I let you do my makeup, in exchange for getting to put eye makeup on you."

"Yes but I've deleted that. Well, most of it. Mostly the part where I rushed out without washing my face the next morning."

"If you've deleted it, how do you remember it now?"

"The intricacies of my Mind Palace are too complex to explain. Now, you were saying about brunch? I'd really rather stay in. It's raining."

"Yes, Sherlock, we live in London."

"Well that shouldn't mean that we should just roll over and take being drenched."

Molly leans over the coffee table and crooks her finger at him. He leans in and she whispers in his ear, "Remember, they have the omelets, with the goat cheese and the morel mushrooms."

"Oh you are a dirty, dirty girl Mary Margaret Hooper."

"Not as dirty as you, now get in the shower."

"No time, I'm afraid. No chance of getting a table if we don't leave in the next five minutes."

He ignores her protests and runs up the stairs. He throws on a jumper, one he knicked from John, and a pair of much roomier jeans than the ones from yesterday. Though they still hang on him in a way he knows she likes.

Molly has obviously resigned herself to brunch with a stinky boyfriend, as she's already got her jacket and shoes on when he returns downstairs. He shoves his feet into his shoes and hides as much of his hair as possible under his cap.

"Glasses?" he asks.

"May as well, though I think someone could be looking at a photo of you in the paper, see you walk by, and not recognize you in that getup."

"I'll skip the glasses. Shall we?"

Sherlock holds the umbrella as they walk the few blocks to the main road. The restaurant she's chosen is a popular one in the neighborhood, but it looks as though they may not have too long of a wait to be seated. The rain seems to have kept people from queuing outside. Sherlock opens the door to allow Molly to go through, sees John Watson and Mary Morstan-Watson sitting at a corner table, and immediately pulls Molly back outside by the arm.

"Shit, shit, shit," he says, steering them away from the building.

"What's wrong?"

"John and Mary are in there."

"Oh, well, we were going to tell them anyway so—"

Sherlock's text alert interrupts.

-You may as well come back in and sit down. We got a table for four. And I'm less likely to punch you if we're in a public place.—

-My jumper looks terrible on you, by the way.-


	9. Chapter 9

Molly holds Sherlock's hand tightly as they go back into the restaurant and over to John and Mary's table. They sit across from the other couple. Molly and Mary greet each other and Molly greets John but the words die on her lips when she realizes that the two men are staring each other down. John sits back with his arms folded across his chest and Sherlock lounges languidly in his chair, feigning bored indifference. The fact that he can lounge in a restaurant chair as gracefully as he can on a sofa makes her a little sorry that she insisted on going out this morning.

Molly gives their food orders while the two men continue to glare at each other.

Finally Sherlock sighs. "Okay, John. How did you figure it out. Please stun me with your massive brilliance." Molly kicks him under the table.

"You can blame her date," he says, gesturing to Molly. "He felt so bad about her having to rush back to work that he suggested we bring her some dinner. So we did. Oh, Molly it was a beautiful spinach ravioli in cream sauce. Which we ended up taking home with us because, when we got to Bart's not only was Molly not there, but no one had seen her since she left at six, no one had heard from her via text or any other channels, and she certainly didn't leave any work undone. They seemed to think that was quite funny, Molly, the idea you'd leave work undone. So well done on the work ethic."

"Thank you," she says, looking intently into her cup of coffee.

"So anyhow, we knew something was fishy but we were also a bit worried so we phoned Sherlock. Went straight to voicemail. This git never shuts his phone off. You can hardly get him to put it on vibrate. So off we went to Baker Street. It's dark and empty there and Mrs. Hudson hasn't seen you since that afternoon when you'd left the flat wearing what she called shamefully tight dungarees. We figured you had to be holed up together at Molly's place, but we weren't going to interrupt. Luckily, Mary remembered that you love this place, Molly. You brought Mary here to recover after her hen night. We figured why not. If we didn't run into you we'd have a nice brunch then pop round to Molly's after since it'd be a more suitable hour. But here you are, walking in smelling like a bordello with your face all glowing."

"Very good, John, I'm glad it only took you several months to figure it out."

"I didn't just figure it out, you prat. We just never caught you."

"Why didn't you just ask me, or Molly?"

"Because I shouldn't bloody have to," John says through clenched teeth. Molly realizes that John is more hurt than angry, but she's not sure that Sherlock realizes it yet. She gives his thigh a squeeze, trying to communicate to him to be careful. He rubs her hand gently.

"You're right."

Everyone at the table gapes at Sherlock.

"What?" Sherlock asks. "He's right. We were wrong. There was no real reason to hide our relationship from John and Mary. They wouldn't tell anyone or let it slip. So has everyone who needs to know been informed or do we have to tell Lestrade, too?"

"Wait, Mrs. Hudson knows?"

"Yes, apparently she's known for a while but just let us know she knew yesterday. So how does it feel to be out sleuthed by an old woman?"

"This has been just another bloody game to you, hasn't it? Anything else the two of you need to get off your chest, then? Secret marriage? Love child?"

"Well, if you must know—" Molly elbows him in the ribs.

"John," she says, "That's it, no more secrets. We were just being overly cautious."

"Sherlock, this had better be the last time you ever lie to me, do you understand?" Something in John's voice makes Sherlock drop all pretense of nonchalance.

"Yes."

"Right. So, how long has it been, then?"

"I kissed Molly for the first time in August, but because of scheduling and a few murders we didn't go on our first date until October."

"October?" John sputters. "Sherlock, it's May."

"Fantastic observation, John. Here comes our food. How about we all shut up and eat?"

John opens his mouth again, but then shuts it, shrugging and digging into his food. He is two bites in when Sherlock's text alert goes off.

Molly knows by the way Sherlock smiles that it is a case. John realizes it too and groans.

"Perfect timing as usual," John mutters, throwing his napkin on the table.

Sherlock is already up. He gives Molly enough cash to pay for all their meals and kisses her on the forehead before heading to the door.

"John, I'll have to stop by my flat for a change of clothes. You head to the crime scene."

John nods and kisses Mary. He takes one last longing look at his meal, grabs a piece of toast, and follows Sherlock out the door.

Molly and Mary stare at the overabundance of food at their table, then burst out laughing. The waitress comes over to refill their coffee and surveys the scene.

"Well, they had to rush off, didn't they? What are they, surgeons or something?"

"No, erm, they're dog whisperers," Mary says.

"Yes," says Molly. "Just got a frantic text from a client. Standard poodle that's developed a bit of a crush on the cat."

"Oh, well, I'll just put this in takeaway boxes then?"

"Thank you," says Molly. She looks at Mary after the waitress leaves. "Dog whisperers? Is that the best you could do? I nearly pissed myself."

"Well, I couldn't say detectives, could I? She might have put two and two together and recognized them, despite that awful getup Sherlock is in."

"That's one of John's jumpers, you know."

"Yes, I know."

"So, you're not mad, then?"

"A little irritated I've missed out on all these months of relationship talk. All of the girls at work are single and I just can't relate to that whole walk of shame, knickers in your handbag stuff anymore. But no, I'm not mad. I do hope you know that you can trust us."

"I do. And I'm sorry. Really."

"It's okay. So, have you finished that book I lent you, or have you been too busy shagging Sherlock?"

"Mary, keep your voice down. And I'm almost finished. It's brilliant. And that's not all we do, by the way."

"Yeah, I guess you are far enough into the relationship for that to be true."

Molly's text alert rings before she can retort.

-Got more info from one's only a seven. Should be wrapped up by tomorrow evening if no exciting twists pop up. Pencil me in for a late dinner. SH—

"Well, looks like my day just opened wide up. Want to see a movie?"

Mary is looking at a text of her own. "Why not? But let's stream something so we can watch it in our pyjamas."

"Brilliant," Molly says. Her text alert rings again.

-You were fantastic, by the way. Glad I didn't have to face him alone. Love, SH.—

She fires off a reply before turning back to her friend and her meal.

-Always.—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has read, followed, and reviewed this story. I've been overwhelmed by the response to it. I'm so sorry it took so long to finish. I was honestly just really reluctant to let it go. Hopefully I'll get to revisit this universe at some point.


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